Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Look at me." Harryś voice was quiet. "You´re not going to die."

Draco was so tired that even opening his eyes seemed an effort, but he did it. "You´re going to tell them all everything, aren´t you," he said.

"Sirius, and Dumbledore and the rest."

Harry nodded. "Yes," he said. "Thatś exactly what I´m going to do. And they´ll know how to help you. What to do."

"And what if they don´t?" Draco asked. "What if they can´t fix it?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, a soft voice spoke from behind them.

"Fix what?" Ginny said.

Harryś mouth remained open. Draco twisted around and looked at her: she was standing at the edge of the incline, her soaking yellow cloak wrapped around her, her red hair streaked damply across her forehead like indiscriminate swipes of paint.

"I thought I told you to stay down there and not to move," Draco said, exhaustion making his voice harsh.

"You did," she said. "But I was worried. It was so quiet." Her eyes went past him and fixed on Harry; there was a mute appeal in them. "I don´t understand," she went on. "Whatś all this about poison and dying?

Whatś happening? Where are those…dog things?"

"The hellhounds ran off," Harry said. "As for the rest of it…"

He looked at Draco, and Draco sighed a weary inner sigh. He imagined the long road of telling people stretching out before him: telling Ginny, telling Hermione, telling Sirius, telling Dumbledore, telling the bloody Weasleys.

He imagined all their reactions: shock and pity and horror and perhaps a creeping fear of what was happening to him. Every day the poison killed him a little more: already it had burned his blood silver, and who knew what subsequent form of destruction it might take?

/Don´t look like that./ Harryś inner voice was quiet. /I´ll tell her on the way to the Burrow. You don´t have to./

Draco looked at him in surprise. And realized that he didn´t have to — he didn´t have to tell anyone; Harry would do it. And it would be better having Harry explain: he could explain properly, and with the correct righteous fervor — he could remember the details that Draco was now too exhausted to recall. Draco could crawl into bed and fall asleep and Harry would take care of it all and he didn´t have to worry that Harry would screw it up, either, because Harry knew what he wanted better than he did himself. For the first time ever he was consciously glad for the connection between them: it was a blessing not to have to explain, and to be understood. The knowledge of it gave him a certain amount of strength, and he straightened up and held his hand out to Ginny.

"Letś get the broomsticks down and get going," he said, "I´ll explain everything to you on the way."

The door to the bedroom closed behind the two girls with an audible click. Hermione walked across the room to the armchair by the bed, turned, and sat down in it as gracefully as she could, smoothing her wrinkled skirt over her knees. She raised her chin and looked at Blaise.

"So," she said. "What do you want?"

A smile touched the corner of Blaiseś perfect mouth. Again, that faint sense of familiarity assailed Hermione, and again she knew that it was because Blaise so much resembled Draco — not physically of course, they were nothing alike save that they were both beautiful. But her mannerisms, from her posture down to the haughty tilt of her small chin, were a copy of Dracoś own. "I wanted to talk to you about Draco Malfoy,"

Blaise said.

"Oh dear," Hermione said coolly. "Is this one of those 'stay away from my boyfriend´ visits? Because if so, you´ve got the wrong girl. If Dracoś been cheating on you, it hasn´t been with me."

"Oh, I know that," Blaise said easily. "He´d never touch you. Even if he did want you, he´d never touch you."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "Glad we´ve established that," she said. "In which case, what do you want?"

"I was in the Ministry with my parents this afternoon," Blaise said, glancing casually around the room. She walked over to a row of photographs tacked above Ronś bed and began to examine them. "I saw Professor Lupin there with that convict godfather of Potterś."

Hermione did not bother offering the correction that Sirius was no longer a convict. She sat without moving while Blaise shrugged off her embroidered cloak; underneath it she was plainly dressed in jeans and a green cowl-necked jumper. She still looked dazzling. It was very irritating.

"I heard Dracoś father kept him and Potter back at the Manor," Blaise said. "Thatś true, isn´t it?"

"As far as I know," admitted Hermione.

"Then they´re in terrible danger," Blaise said, turning with a swift theatrical gesture to gaze at Hermione. Her eyes were wide and misty green; she was so very pretty that Hermione wanted to smack her.

"You know," Hermione said, "I´d kind of figured that was a possibility, thanks."

"All of you are," Blaise said. "This is much bigger than it looks — much bigger than you could possibly imagine. They don´t tell us very much -

we´re too young. But I´ve heard — things." Blaise took a deep breath, and Hermione realized that she was, actually, genuinely, frightened. "A lot of people are going to die."

Hermioneś heart skipped a beat. "Why are you telling me this, Blaise?"

Blaiseś eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, give me one reason to believe your visit here wasn´t motivated entirely by malice. So far you´ve told me that my friends are in danger -

which I knew — and made vague and upsetting statements about people dying. You don´t like me, you don´t like Harry, you´re a Slytherin through and through and I can´t imagine they´d be happy with you if they knew you were here. So why risk it for my benefit?"

"You won´t tell them." Blaiseś tone was confident. Hermione wondered what on earth she was finding in those photographs to rivet her attention: they were mostly photographs of the Weasleys, some of Harry and herself, some of Ginnyś schoolfriends at Beauxbatons. "You´re a Gryffindor just as much as I´m a Slytherin. You wouldn´t turn me in like that. Even though you hate me, too."

"I don´t hate you, Blaise." Hermione felt very tired. "I just don´t have one good reason to trust you."

"Yes, you do," Blaise said. "Draco."

"Draco? What about him?"

"Think about him getting hurt. Think about it — "

"I have been. All the time." The words were out of Hermioneś mouth before she could hold them back; she regretted them instantly. Blaise would put the worst possible spin on it and mock her and throw her words back in her face and -

"So have I," Blaise said.

Hermione raised her chin. "Draco said you hated him now."

""I should hate him." Blaise shrugged. "I should hate him, and I sort of hate him, but I´ve known him since we were children and I can´t just… I mean, I know heś impossible. Heś…arrogant, and…"

"And self-centered," Hermione said.

"Oooh, yes," Blaise agreed enthusiastically. "And pigheaded, and he can be so mean. He never listens, and…"

"And he always think he's right."

"Especially when he isn't. And he smirks."

"Oh, I know. And he's vain."

"He takes hours getting dressed."

"He's obsessed with his hair."

"He's terribly selfish in bed as well."

"Gah!" Hermione nearly fell out of the armchair. "I did NOT need to know that."

Blaise chuckled. "I was joking."

"Ah yes," said Hermione sourly. "That rich Slytherin humour we're all so fond of."

Blaise smiled in a placating manner. "He is obsessed with his hair, though.

Oh, he think he's so pretty. It would be less annoying if he wasn't, of course."

"I know," Hermione said. "He's all those things — and selfish — and he can be cruel — and if you aren´t someone he loves you might as well not exist at all," she added softly.